


Freddie Lounds: Ghost Hunter

by Aisu, Red_Ice



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1607093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisu/pseuds/Aisu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Ice/pseuds/Red_Ice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On local access television near Baltimore, MD, Freddie Lounds is a moderately well known television personality, recognized for her paranormal investigation program Ghost Tattler.  The show is largely noted for its hokey sensationalism, shoddy effects, and while celebrated by so-called “true believers”, most will quickly point out that the ‘hauntings’ she reports on are easily explained by other means.  They’re right, of course, the show is a complete sham.</p>
<p>Except that ghosts, spirits, and demons are absolutely real.  And when she isn’t filming her crock of a TV show she is out fighting the real evil that she knows not even her “true believers” would believe if they saw it on their screen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liability

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP, additional warnings may be added later on.

"Was I touched by a presence tonight?" Freddie said in the slightly breathy tones that she'd found got the best reaction, staring at the camera. "What lurks in this old manor, just waiting to return? Could it be the spirit of Mr. Sutcliffe, still walking the halls of his old home?"

She put on her best smile, cocked her head slightly to the right.

"Find out in the second part of our investigative report on what's been called the most haunted house in America. I'm Freddie Lounds, this has been Ghost Tattler, and I wish you all... goodnight."

"Cut!" someone yelled, the cameras going off. Freddie let her smile drop in an instant, finally relaxing. It had been a long night of poking around the cellar of some abandoned half-renovated Victorian. There were cobwebs clinging to her new jacket no matter how much she brushed at it, her nose was full of dust, and she was eager to get home.

But she had a few things to take care of first.

She made her way back down to the cellar, poking her head in. "We're done filming for the night," she called. "You can come out now."

Brad, her special effects guy, gave a cheer, and Freddie grinned despite herself. Soon he was coming up the stairs. "Good show tonight, Freddie."

"Same as all the others," she said with a shrug, but she was smiling at the compliment. "I think we might pick up a few more viewers with the two-parter, at least. Network actually bothered to throw us an ad spot that wasn't at three AM."

"Maybe we'll have the budget to let me get equipment beyond fans and cheap CDs soon," Brad answered, rolling his eyes.

"One can only hope." Not that she really expected it. She’d gotten used to working on a shoestring.

Brad nodded, hitting the top step, then paused. His arms were full of equipment, all the little tools they used to jerk furniture around and produce glowing orbs and mysterious voices. "Hey, Freddie?"

"Mmm?" She wasn't focused now. She was glancing past him, into the cellar. It was dark. Without Brad’s lights on any more, the stairs seeming to disappear into nothingness halfway down.

"You ever feel bad about this?"

Freddie stared at him, raising an eyebrow. "We're giving people exactly what they want, Brad. It's entertainment, excitement... Nobody really believes it, anyways." She shrugged. "If they want to pay me for being scared by rattling chairs, I'll take it, and all the fame that comes with it."

"Knew you'd answer like that," he said, but he was grinning again. "I'll meet you at the van, okay?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "You guys take off without me. I'll clean up a bit more, catch a cab home."

"Always so dutiful," he said with a laugh, and with that he headed out the door, still having to struggle with his armful of equipment.

Freddie waited until his footsteps faded, then started down the rickety steps into the cellar.

She hadn't been lying. Her show was entertainment, not meant to be believed. The effects were faked on a budget that seemed to shrink every episode, to the point where they had actually debated using a sheet as a ghost. Her reactions were faked with less.

Nobody would believe it if it were real.

She stood in the dark, the shadows seeming to close in around her, leaving her alone. Cut off. In danger.

"You can come out now too," she said to the darkness.

Something in it growled.

And Freddie Lounds smiled.

***

If Frederick Chilton was grateful for one thing, it was that Abel Gideon had no surviving family left to sue him. Dr. Gideon, of course, had killed all his family. He had, Chilton suspected, killed an awful lot of people, and he had done his utmost to needle it out of him. Clearly he had needled a nerve; a few weeks ago, Dr. Gideon had killed himself, chewed through his own tongue in his cell. He was already dead when they found him.

And Chilton would never hear the end of it. There was so much paperwork to fill out, liability claims to dodge, interview requests to ignore. He'd been so close, he was sure of it, to getting a confession out of Abel Gideon. How could it have gone so wrong?

Slumped over his desk and drowning in these papers, Chilton slammed his hand down on the intercom. “Martha,” he addressed his receptionist. “Can you cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day?”

There was a moment of radio silence. “Dr. Chilton,” Martha cut in. “You have seven outstanding appointments today, including one meeting with a lawyer, another with Jack Crawford, and the mother of a patient who has had to reschedule with you three times now.”

Chilton stared a hole through his intercom. “Let me rephrase,” he said. “Please, for the love of god, cancel the rest of my appointments. I cannot see or be seen by anyone. My tolerance for anyone wanting anything from me has been drained completely. Tell them anything. Tell them I am explosively ill. But if you send a single soul up here to bother me this afternoon we will be having words.”

It was unclear whether or not Martha intended for her long-suffering sigh to be broadcast to him, but he received it nonetheless. “As you say, Dr. Chilton.”

The weight tumbled from his shoulders immediately. This was all he needed. Just one evening with no pressing expectations. It left him time to partake in what he colorfully regarded as his “primetime dramas.” He left his desk to relax on the leather sofa in his office with a glass of cognac, watching the surveillance feeds off of his laptop. He tabbed from camera to camera, seeing if anyone was having an interesting chat, even with themselves. On one feed, he noted a static flicker in the cameras, and a shuddering in the lights. He set his jaw and wrinkled his nose. An electrical short in the maximum security wing, then.

Excellent.

More appointments.

***

It was amazing how a space could create an impression.

Dr. Chilton's office was lined with books, all carefully old-looking but still untouched. The furniture was leather and high-backed, and hardly any of it showed any wear. There was statuary everywhere - deers by the windows, urns on the fireplace - and they competed for attention with the seemingly endless pictures of nothing that were carefully framed. A book had been neatly placed on the desk, as untouched as the rest. The table held a crystal decanter and matching glasses, only one of which was dustless.

A room could create an impression in a moment, and the impression Freddie Lounds picked up as she looked around was a generous mixture of pretension and loneliness. She almost felt pity, for a moment. Then that quickly faded into amusement.

"While it has been a... trying time lately, it's always good to have new patients," Chilton said, beckoning her to one of the chairs. "Please, do sit."

Freddie remained standing, smiling. "I'm afraid I'm here under false pretenses, doctor. You kept turning down my team's appointment requests."

Chilton stared at her for a moment before groaning and folding his face into his hands. "You're from that damn Ghost Gossiper show, aren't you?"

"Ghost Tattler," Freddie answered, smile not fading.

"Listen, I turned your appointments down for a reason. We have enough negative PR here as it is, what with what happened two weeks ago, and the last thing I need is some 2-bit late night ghost show wandering around saying that dead patients are still roaming the halls." Chilton stared at her, expression forced into what was probably meant to be a scowl but came off as more of a pout.

"It could be exposure for you," Freddie said, moving to lean against the desk. "The right kind, too. Show that your doors are open, get a few more patients--"

"I don't want the kind of conspiracy nuts your show would attract," Chilton muttered, leaning back. "We have enough of those locked up."

"There could be a book deal in this if we play our cards right," Freddie argued. "It's fresh, it's interesting. My ratings would spike, you'd get the publicity and the fame..."

"This is not what I want to be famous for," Chilton said flatly. "Why are you so keen on this? I've seen your show - not by choice, mind you - and defacing a recent death isn't your style."

Freddie paused to consider her response for a moment, then straightened. "Can you blame me for chasing a rare opportunity?" She shrugged. "I have my reasons for thinking this is a major one."

"Well, unfortunately, opportunity is about to slam the door in your face." Chilton stood, glaring at her. "Out. Don't bother trying to call any more. Your show will not film here."

"Guess it was worth trying to help," Freddie said with a shrug, heading for the door. "And by the way, you're not fooling anyone by 'reading' the DSM-II."

As Chilton began to flush with anger, Freddie stepped out the door.

She'd just have to come by later.

***

The electrical issue in the maximum security wing had gotten to be too great to ignore. The appointment couldn't be avoided. So of course, here he sat, after hours, doing absolutely nothing but waiting for the electrician to arrive. He twirled one of his expensive pens between his fingers, glaring at the monitors, practically compelling his patients to do something interesting and take his mind off the waiting. Lord, how he hated to wait on other people.

That flicker cut across the maximum security wing monitors again.

No.

No, it was all the monitors. All the monitors were flickering. And, faintly, the lights in his office began to dim. “Oh for god's sake,” Chilton said, sinking in his chair. This was a state of the art facility, and here it was, falling apart all around him.

_Not the only thing falling apart, soon enough._

Chilton blinked. It had sounded like... But no. He squinted at his failing monitors, trying to figure out who it was who was talking. All at once they cut to black, and he snarled a sigh.

There was a hand against his neck.

“Alright, cut that out!” he snapped, whirling around to see who he was going to fire. But no one was there. None to be seen.

A chill rolled down his spine. Maybe it wasn't too late to cancel on the electrician.

The lights crashed to black.

It was ridiculous. It was ridiculous to be this nervous. Just a little dark. Just a little dark. He fumbled around in his desk drawers for a flashlight, but found only a book of matches. It took three tries to successfully strike one with his quivering hands.

And in the dim light of the match, he saw Dr. Gideon's face.

_Hello, doctor._

Chilton swallowed his breath and choked on it. The match fell to the floor, snatching away the light. Darkness wrapped around him, and so did those hands, closing around his neck, and they were cold, so cold, like ice. He could feel his skin blistering from it. “Please,” he wheezed.

_Death is very clarifying, you know. For example, I realized that it wasn't fair for me to die over what you did to me._

“I-I didn't do anything!” Chilton said, fumbling to pull away from the presence, but he could only back himself up against the wall. “I didn't, you--”

This earned him a desk chair flung straight into his gut. He crumpled, winded, and when he felt the cold again it felt as though it was coming from inside of him. Ghostly hands pierced through his chest and bled iciness into his throat and lungs and stomach. It was getting so hard to breathe.

_Well, maybe death will clarify a few things for you too._

Chilton stared at the ceiling in tears, his muscles stiff and painful, his breaths thin. When the light washed over him, he wondered if it was the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. That is, until Dr. Gideon recoiled from him with an echoing shriek, dissipating into smoke. Warmth flooded over Chilton and almost threw him into shock. He looked to the door.

There stood Freddie Lounds, silhouetted against the hallway light. She held a spray bottle before her, and a crystal on a chain. Her chest heaved as she took heavy breaths, and her long coat and hair still swung from rushing. “You alive down there?” she said.

Chilton forced a whimper out of his aching lungs.

“Good,” she said. She bounded into the room and seized his arm, giving him a sharp tug. “We have to go, now, before he reconstitutes.”

No longer having any idea what was happening, Chilton went along with Freddie unquestioningly. Whatever happened to him now couldn't possibly be worse than what just happened.


	2. Dead Weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Dr. Chilton confront the Gideon situation, and Chilton makes a potentially terrible decision.

Chilton slumped in the passenger’s seat, reclined back as far as he could go. He stared incredulously at Freddie. She was driving along with no real sense of urgency, the glow of streetlights washing over her and passing and washing over her again. “I don’t understand,” he said, a hand pressed to his aching head. “I’ve seen your show. Everything looked so desperately fake.”

“Hm?” Freddie didn’t offer him so much as a passing glance. “Oh. Yeah, absolutely. The show is an utter fraud.”

Chilton sat bolt straight up then. “But why!?” he said. “Why, when you know the genuine article is out there waiting to be seen!”

Freddie only shrugged. “Real ghosts don’t film well,” she said. “A girl’s gotta make money, you know.”

Chilton’s jaw hung slack. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Thanks!”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh, sure it was.” Freddie beamed, straightening her back against the seat, head up.

He had no idea what to do, he realized. He had no idea what to do with this situation. He had no idea what to do with her. He was lost, free-floating in the dark, and his only source of light and guidance was this uncontrollable wildfire of a woman. Didn’t she look so self-satisfied, sitting there smirking to herself about her ludicrous program? But how was he meant to sit here and cast judgments against his only hope? If he drove her off, like he drove her out of his office the other day, it would just be him and Gideon. And he didn’t stand a chance. “So… what happens now?”

“Now,” said Freddie, turning to park at the seediest motel Chilton had ever seen. It looked the way a cockroach made you feel, and probably hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since the 70’s. “Now we do a crash-course on banishing rituals. Tomorrow night, we see him off to the ‘great beyond’ or whatever you want to call it. I suggest you call in sick.”

“ _We?_ ” Chilton spat, fumbling and flailing his way out of his seatbelt. “What is this ‘we’ business? I know nothing about ghosts and, up until about an hour ago, I didn’t even believe in them.”

Freddie rolled her head toward Chilton and gave him a good stare through her lashes before sliding out of the car. “Here’s the thing about poltergeists,” she said. “A ghost can cling to this world for any number of reasons, but a poltergeist stays because of a grudge. You are his grudge, Dr. Chilton. He won’t manifest nearly as strongly without you present, and I can’t guarantee his removal unless I can isolate him.” She made her way across the lot and up the rusty stairs in quick steps on her kitten heels.

Scrambling to keep up with her, Chilton called, “So what you’re saying is, I’m your bait.”

At the top of the steps, Freddie lingered, grinning as she turned back to face him for a moment. “If that’s how you want to put it, yes, definitely.”

“And if I refuse?” Chilton glowered up at her from the bottom.

“I’m sorry,” said Freddie, leaning over the railing. “I didn’t realize you’d grown so attached to your new roommate. Well don’t let me get between you two, then.”

Chilton set his jaw and dug his feet into the pavement, shuffling, before finally storming up after her. “Alright, fine. What do I do?”

“Oh no, I do everything,” said Freddie. “All we’re doing tonight is teaching you how not to die. Come along.”

Chilton followed, because not dying was one of his favorite things.

***

The night had been spent in a way Chilton could only describe as unfortunately educational.

Freddie's motel room had been a surprisingly elegant clutter of various mysterious items, ranging from crystals to bottles of herbs to tarot cards to, for some reason, a pack of sidewalk chalk. She had led him through it to a clear space, promising to teach him basic techniques.

He’d had to learn to control his breathing, to 'visualize' (what use imagining colors would have he had no idea), to make a basic attempt at meditation (most of which he spent thinking about how ridiculous he must look, sitting on a motel bed with his legs crossed). She had even taught him some sort of banishing ritual, which seemed to mostly involve pointing a knife in various directions and imagining angels and pentagrams.

"Is this really going to get rid of him?" he had asked, after intoning the last word he couldn't pronounce.

"That? No, not at all, that just got rid of some minor contamination." Freddie had shrugged, then smiled. "But it might keep him from killing you for a few minutes."

"Lovely," he had muttered.

Now he found himself standing in the cell Abel Gideon had died in. Freddie drew a circle on the floor in blue chalk. The lights were flickering a little, and part of him wanted to just turn tail and run - but he knew this was his only chance to get his life back, as utterly absurd as it all was.

And he'd have to explain the chalk on the floor to his custodial staff, which wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to.

"How did you even know I was being attacked?" he asked, leaning against the wall.

"That part was luck," Freddie answered, beginning to sketch complex runes around the outer edge of the circle. "I had figured out that you had something major, and I was there to try to figure out what. In the basement, when it started." She looked up at him, smiled. "Be grateful I'm a fast runner."

"You broke into the hospital," Chilton said flatly.

"And saved your life. Step into the circle before I close it."

Chilton gave the sigh of the long-suffering, stepping into the elaborate circle. Freddie drew a small segment of the circle behind him. "There. Done. Now what's meant to--"

The lights went out, all at once.

There was an awful cold in the air.

"I think he's here," Chilton said, and he found his voice wouldn't stop shaking.

"Okay, just--hold him off until I finish the banishing,” Freddie said firmly.

"Hold him off? How?!” Chilton couldn’t fight the note of panic in his voice. He knew a single banishing ritual that apparently didn’t actually work and now he was being expected to single handedly hold off a ghost.

But Freddie didn't reply, instead beginning to speak in what sounded like Greek. He could hear her heels against the concrete as she moved around the circle.

There were other footsteps, too.

_Back so soon, doctor?_

Chilton found it hard to breathe. Panic surged through him. Every part of him said he had to run, to get out, but his legs were paralyzed. His entire body was paralyzed. He was helpless, defenseless.

And something cold gripped onto him from behind.

_I'm eager to have you join me too._

"Freddie--" Chilton choked out, heart beating fast in his chest. "Freddie, hurry--"

But the chanting kept on, just outside the circle, as if Freddie hadn't even heard him. Maybe she hadn't. Maybe he was trapped in his own private Hell already, trapped in the circle with a monster.

The hands sunk into his chest, and he almost managed to brace himself for the cold. Almost.

It was like blades stabbing through his lungs, his heart, his stomach. He had never felt cold like this before. It was an absence of any heat, even the heat of his own blood in his veins, and he could feel his body stiffen. His breathing was ragged and he knew then he was going to die alone in a cell with no one for company but a ghost and a madwoman--

The hands withdrew as Freddie said some string of incomprehensible words, and Chilton collapsed to the concrete.

_Well, well. And what are you up to?_

Freddie kept on, calmly, but the pacing footsteps followed hers now.

_It's not going to help, you realize. And for helping him... maybe you should be with him when he--_

Another word, and Gideon stopped. There was a strangled, pained noise. Finally he began speaking again but his tone was different now, angrier, less controlled. Less human. Echoing strangely off the bars and walls.

_I'll make him wipe out the circle before he dies. I’ll get to you yet. I'll make you both suffer like I did. I'll take your body apart like he took my mind. I'll--_

But Freddie spoke her last, loudly, with a tone of finality, firm and clear, and the voice stopped. After a moment, the lights flickered on.

"You feeling alright?" Freddie said, panting, looking exhausted but as composed as ever. She held a crystal in one hand that Chilton swore was still faintly glowing.

"I think my lungs are a lost cause," Chilton croaked out from his position on the floor. He felt no particular urge to get up any time soon. Getting up involved far too much movement.

"You'll live," Freddie said, and she grinned, offering him a hand. "Come on. Time to go home."

He took that hand and stood, with difficulty, still swaying on his feet. Her hand was warm, and he took a brief moment’s comfort in it before finally letting go.

"Any chance of you cleaning up the chalk before you go?"

"You have janitors."

Chilton sighed heavily and followed Freddie out into the light.

***

Everything seemed so quiet now. Quiet was intolerable because it gave Chilton too much time to think. Too much time for self-reflection. Chilton loathed self reflection, because it often led to the undesirable position of realizing he had been wrong.

He thumbed the beaten and outdated DSM sitting on his desk, flipping the pages back and forth and watching them go like a musty, antique desk-toy. He had patients to interview later. An angry little man who had shot up a campus while screaming a lengthy political screed. Then a man who had murdered five prostitutes in cold blood… and kept them. Another who had such severe and persistent amnesia regarding his crimes that Chilton suspected it was all an act. Hopeless, heinous people.

Chilton no longer had any idea who he was helping. If he was helping anyone at all. The spectre of Abel Gideon certainly begged to differ. He would object, but it was hard to argue with the persistence of a man who would come back from the borderlands of death to destroy you. His entire life he’d longed to do something important. Something significant. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made real progress with a patient. What was he even doing here?

Nothing like her. Swooping in unwelcomed in the middle of the night, with the audacity to save his life and make it seem like it was nothing. Freddie with her sharp tongue and her wild red hair and her strange, inexplicable magic and knowledge. He was almost offended at her significance. In spite of her fake show, she was out there doing something real. And she even had recognition too, for better or worse. How dare she. How dare she show up here and open up his eyes.

The beaten old DSM lay open to a page on psychosis last considered accurate around 1968. Chilton scowled at it. He needed to get something done.

***

Routine exorcisms were almost boring for Freddie now. She just drew the circle, did the ritual, and cleansed the house, usually in just a few hours. She did them anyways - it was good to stay in practice, and the last thing she wanted was to leave hordes of potential problems behind - but that didn't mean she enjoyed it.

For the times like this when she didn't have proper bait (the spirit was attached to someone who had moved out years back, and only manifested intermittently), she had to be in the circle to call the spirits in. It was a little more dangerous, but she was used to it. Most of them couldn't even touch her, armed as she was with warding charms and a spray bottle of vaguely holy water.

She paced the circle, waiting for the spirit to make itself known, bracing herself. It could manifest at any time, in any way. She had to be on the ready.

The door slammed open, feet away.

She whirled, spraying the bottle down hard.

“Freddie, I’ve been thinking, and--agh! What did you--” Chilton stood there, staring down at the new damp spots on the front of his shirt.

Freddie stared at him in disbelief for a second before shaking her head. “No. No. You get out of here. This is not the time for _whatever_ you have in mind, and you need to leave now.”

“I just want to talk!” Chilton protested, stepping closer. “Just--put off whatever you’re doing for five minutes!”

“I’ve already started calling it,” Freddie answered. She stormed towards Chilton, intending to physically push him out if she had to--

\--and she realized a second too late that she’d left the circle.

Mist began to rise around their feet, swirling around their legs. It was terribly, terribly cold already, and it was all Freddie could do not to fall immediately. She sprayed the bottle at the ground, and the mist recoiled around it a little, but it was too incorporeal for the spray to do much good.

“Frederick, just run,” Freddie said, trying to remember a banishing she could do with her legs so numb. “Just--”

But the mist seemed to rise up around Chilton, surrounding him, and with a little cry he fell to the floor. Freddie could see him shivering uselessly, trying to get heat back into his body.

She sprayed the bottle again, chanting, beginning to circle Chilton's prone form on shaking, tottering legs. When she felt the cold begin to intensify, she ignored it. When her arm went slowly numb, she did her best to ignore it. She just had to finish up the banishing and it would be over again. It wasn't a powerful spirit, wasn't an involved banishing. She just had to--

\--It was cold, too cold, and the spray bottle fell from her fingers and the words stopped on her lips. It was in her mouth, her lungs, stealing the heat from her. She could barely see now, barely think. It was much more powerful than she had realized, and she had lost her chance, and it was over.

The cold lifted a little.

Vision and her senses came back to her. Chilton was still laying on the floor, shivering, pale, but he had grabbed the spray bottle and managed to hit the mist surrounding her with it. Freddie took a moment to breathe, Chilton spraying at her again, and then she resumed.

From there, it was only a few sentences, and at last the cold was fully gone and the mist was nowhere to be seen. She sagged, panting, trying to catch her breath and failing.

"Are you alright?" Chilton said shakily, pushing himself to his feet with effort. "I--"

"What exactly were you thinking?" Freddie said, glaring at him. "If you hadn't come, it would have been contained in the circle, I would have been properly shielded, and we wouldn't have had this problem!"

Chilton raised an eyebrow. "I did just save your life, you know."

"After you nearly cost me it," Freddie replied, folding her arms. "Not the kind of help I really appreciate, darling."

"I'm..." Chilton hesitated, then forced the words out grudgingly. "I'm sorry. But I saw you were filming here, and I had to drop by. I need to talk to you."

"About what? Incredibly risky behaviors and how fun they are to engage in?" Freddie sighed heavily, shaking her head. "Because you've done enough of that for one day, I assure you."

"Can you let me talk for five seconds uninterrupted?"

"No guarantees."

"Why am I even doing this," Chilton muttered to himself, before turning to look at Freddie. "I feel like you and I worked together well on the problem you solved for me. I think we could make a good partnership."

"I used you as bait for a poltergeist that was attracted specifically to you, and you spent most of the time screaming and flailing around on the ground."

"But I can do more than that," Chilton argued. "You were in the circle when I came in. Were you using yourself to attract the ghost?"

"While wearing multiple protective charms and in a circle that would have dampened its abilities, yes," Freddie said, still not unfolding her arms.

"I could be the one in the circle. I could hold things off for you." Chilton rubbed his forehead. "This is all utterly absurd, and I'm mostly certain I've gone insane at this point, but it's so much more than I ever imagined possible. You do things. You make changes. You help people. And I just want to be part of it."

"So you're offering yourself on permanent bait duty?" Freddie found herself starting to smile despite herself. There was something almost endearing about Chilton, in the way of a particularly annoying and whiny puppy.

"If that's what you need me for, yes. I'd rather hope that you could find me something more useful than that with time." Chilton managed a crooked smile back at her.

Freddie paused, then nodded. "I usually work alone, and I'm not planning to change many of my habits to fit you," she said firmly. "You will do the dirty jobs that I don't like. You will be bait. You will probably end up injured yet again. Get used to hypothermia."

"You sound like a wonderful employer," Chilton muttered, but he was still smiling.

"The only one you're going to find in this line of work," Freddie replied, smirking. "Now, come on. If you're going to do this, I'm going to need to teach you more than a single ineffective banishing."

"Just lead the way," Chilton replied.

Maybe, Freddie thought, it wouldn't be so bad.


End file.
